


Denouement

by skydork (klismaphilia)



Series: Unsanctimonious; Victorian AU [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Body Horror, Castration, Cholera, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Genital Torture, Gore, Hux is Not Nice, Hysteria, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, M/M, Medical Trauma, Object Penetration, Prostitution, Psychological Torture, Psychopathology & Sociopathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork
Summary: Hux would consider himself akin to an animal; made to be broken in and put down once he'd been thoroughly used. Of course, the Doctor was a different story, and always had been-- Ren was repulsive just like himself.   Or: the disgusting ending to a story of utter debauchery.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Inchoate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637979) by [skydork (klismaphilia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/skydork). 



> this is probably not entirely coherent seeing as I wrote it while I was in a pretty negative place myself.
> 
> regardless, here's the finale section to this shitstorm AU. proud to say it's the most fucked up yet. if you haven't read the other parts to the series, I would recommend doing so before reading this.

**Denouement**

**…**

_ Eight Months Past--1848 _

 

 

They would all break, in the end.

How long had it been, now? How long had he been here, suspended between reality and the endless void of existence, waiting? Far too long, unfortunate as it was, and yet not enough for his mind to undo the memories. Half-formed, barely-lived moments at best, Armitage considered, though the feeling still lingered, as indescribable as anything could be.

Hands, moving inside him, his abdomen, opening him up and sifting through organs, bathed in his blood. The blood which had served as lube for his own discretions with the Doctor, numerous times, against the filthy, stone floor of the hospital or the cold slab that had been a table in the operating theatre. Those fingers were as nimble in pulling him apart as they were in opening him up, the disgraced Lord had found, adept at discerning the root of his depravity and undoing it as though it were a mere thread.

Was it so wrong that he’d do it over, if given the chance? Moreso, was it wrong to believe he’d desire vengeance, proving himself a threat and not a victim, wishing so desperately that he could throw all caution to the wind and give himself over to his wretched insanity?

Yes, Hux considered. Yes, it was  _ so  _ well deserved, for Ren to break beneath him, for Ren to dissolve into this madness that had afflicted Armitage so thoroughly, consumed him down to his very center. 

He was mindless, even breathless as his hands clawed at the skin of some unnamed stranger, some fellow tortured soul who pressed atop him, Hux’s legs slid astride slim hips and eyes blown wide in something between lust and dissociation. There was nothing here, not anymore; nothing to stop the madness, or the bleeding, the ache in his gut so deep he’d had no choice but to surrender himself to it. He wondered what Ren had stolen; higher, and it could’ve been his heart, though that needn’t matter in the first place. After all, Hux’s heart had died so long ago, impressed itself into a box of tin and wire casings.

The heat flooded his senses; his chest heaved, spine arching, rigid, as he spasmed in throws of pleasure, nearly seizing up with the strain of it all. The picture was not right, it never was, but Ren was somewhere else, far away from here, and Hux was no longer Lord Huxley, nor Brigadier General. Perhaps he never was to begin with.

* * *

 

 

Sometimes he’d look in the mirror and deign to call himself  _ lovely.  _ Lovely, if only for whatever mechanisms had been pushed into his skin, for whatever organs had been stolen from him months before he’d come to this crossroads of uncertainty and humility. It wasn’t for the skin of alabaster, cool to the touch and frigid when left bare, or the lack-luster red hair, eyes rimmed with blackened rings of sleeplessness and tears. It wasn’t even for the  _ disgust,  _ as rueful as that was.

No, it was all because of those thin, spindling stitches laid into his flesh, the cuts pulled taut across his abdomen, his chest and his back, somehow the only distinguishing feature Hux had come to admire in this realm of existence. The thought of dark blood, ripe with filth from his proclivities, spilling across his skin and laying a picture of scorn is a perfect one. He thinks about Ren, wonders if the mad doctor would enjoy taking him apart, skinning him bit by bit and gouging his eyes, tying him down with his own innards.

Would it not be a sight? How beautiful, a possessed wretch, an uncertain plaything for men madder than himself. Laughable, and yet absurdly perfect…

Hux licked his lips, hand gripping tight to the thin sash around his waist, securing his robe in place as well as he could given the circumstances. He straightens his posture, he sucks in his chest… and he waits. 

_ This day,  _ something speaks within his mind, tingling underneath his skin and flashing lightning behind his eyes.  _ This is that day, fated, strived for. _

He clutches the robe closer to his fragile, unfortunate looking frame, disheveled appearance reeking of frequent use, his body wrought of the grime that feeds the base of society. Hux knows, now, what must be done; he’s known too long, and now that there is a semblance of reminiscence, a possibility for his melancholy to culminate to something beautiful…

_ You do not take opportunity for granted _ .

And as such, the knife is slid just inside the bandages surrounding his narrow waist, a hilt worn by inlaid garnet glinting in the reflection of dull candlelight. Hux has a visitor to attend to; he’s been waiting far too long.

* * *

 

 

“How long did it take you to find me?” The voice is dull, uncouth and wavering, speaking lengths to the emptiness that dwells within Hux’s existence. He’s smiling, faintly, glancing across Kylo’s features, hand reaching out to slide into thick locks of black hair, jerk the man’s head back until their eyes are fully met. Kylo’s stare is as haughty as Hux remembered, eyes blazing with something both curious and loathing, and it’s mere seconds before he’s jerking away, that infuriating smirk having returned tenfold.

“I let you leave the asylum, Armitage. Did you really expect I wouldn’t know  _ exactly  _ where to find you when the time came?”

“Europe is a grand expanse,” Hux’s shoulders flinch, nearly imperceptible. “Black magic, certainly; everything about you is spoiled by it. The overwhelming  _ stench  _ of betrayal, abhorrence. I don’t know how I never took notice before, Doctor…”

“You wanted me.” The words hold no sway over Hux’s mind, as he quirks an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side in thought.

“I was  _ needy,  _ then. I am not so foolish now. Not so weak.”

“Not weak enough to  _ beg _ for a curse to your affliction? To throw yourself at me and open yourself up as you did those many nights in the dark--”

“ _ No,  _ Ren.” Hux halts him, pleased. “I have accepted my sickness. What fun would it be if I refused now? Indulgence… it has cured me, in the end. I never needed you to begin with.”

A laugh, wry, taunting. “Of course not, Hux.” There’s a pause, slight, as Kylo’s head tilts toward his chest, shoulders still secured against the pipework of the stark room behind him, lengths of rope immovable across his arms. “France seems an appropriate choice for a disgraced whore, I must say. Fixing to be the next Antoinette?”

No response. The hand in Ren’s hair stiffens, before a knife is being teased along his lips, the hollow of his throat, edge of his Adam’s apple. Deft fingers search the button along his trousers, popping the waist loose and digging for a hold against his thick girth. The Doctor’s cock springs to attention suddenly, and Ren fidgets, as though nervous.

It’s  _ wonderful,  _ Hux decides, as the dagger presses to the inside of his thigh, across his manhood.

“It’s a shame you feel the need to prattle on like this,” the redhaired man offers, chuckling to himself, as if he’d learned some horribly satisfying secret, been jesting to begin with. “No matter, in finality. You take my sanity, and I reply in kind. It would be only fair, Ren, that the thing which you so  _ graciously _ used against me would be the very thing I destroy first.” The sharp-edge of the tip digs into the man’s testes, pressing, an unspoken threat soon to be acted on.

And then the incision begins. The cry is loud, whimpering and impossibly asinine, a true praise for Hux’s magnanimity. He pulls his hands back, jams the weapon in rough, spears the Doctor’s groin, pulls back and throws forward again. An empty hand grabs for the half-broken shaft, jerking roughly as tendon and nerve are severed within the flesh, blood leaking in a manner of decorum hardly befitting a dog.

Kylo shrieks and Hux is gleeful; the pain, not his anymore, and never again, is overwhelming in intensity, causing his spine to shudder and knees to knock together at the promise of ruined sobs. To feel something break apart and suffer is to be overjoyed, to  _ kill  _ the source of his own downward spiral is a wonder--

_ Never enough, _ in the end, but Hux doesn’t care, not when he’s kissing away those crystalline rivulets across pale cheeks, licking them from his skin and sinking teeth into a fleshy, exposed throat, not when he’s still holding the dismembered organ in his hand, dangling it before Kylo’s face and gloating over his own victory. The scent of filth and excrement is overwhelming, but the tang of blood is so memorable and so vibrant that Hux can hardly help clinging to this moment…

Eternity is now.

He’s wrenching Kylo’s legs apart and smothering his mouth with his own severed cock, stuffing it between his slightly parted lips as the knife finds perch within his thigh, again and again and again until the skin is slick with blood, until Hux finds himself willing to invert the blade, slide it along the scourge’s perineum and press it past his rim, bury the blade to the hilt inside Ren’s body. The scenes are blurred together, dismal and grey across a canvas of storm, but the blood coats the silver inside and out, dripping onto the stone floor and shifting with each movement Kylo makes.

He shudders, and Hux kicks the chair back, topples it to the floor, leaves the sorry mess of a man there to cry and rot like a slaughtered pig.

The sensation in his chest dulls further; there is nothing left of a heart.

* * *

 

 

Hux tumbles from the bed, his eyes glossy, hardly able to see in the depth of nocturne around him. Viscous fluid seeps from his lips, dribbling down over his chin, his body seizing up as he retches, violently, hunching over on the floor, his fists pressed into hard ground, hair obscuring his vision. The arch of his spine trembles, his lower back awash with a jutting pain that lances him in half.

And then he’s pitching again, falling face-forward into the pool of his own vomit, a slick, hot mess between his legs, his sweaty skin chilled to the bone, frozen in the moment of self-detonation, hunched and felled by his own inherent  _ wrongness. _

It is odd that, even now, Armitage’s first instinct is to call for Ren, to rush toward the other’s side and bury his head into the doctor’s neck, inhale the familiarity of his scent. It is strange that in spite of everything Ren has ruined for him, he was somehow the only being in the world to  _ love  _ the creature that is Armitage Huxley, the only being to know his innermost desires.

They were bound, soul-deep, and hindered by their own disgusting motivations. But Ren lies bled-out on the floor of the cellar beneath him, and Hux is nearly drowning in his own bodily fluids, ill to his very core.

Hysteria may have been a monster, but it was a silent one.

Cholera, ever-present and arousingly revolting, is a well-suited way for Hux to end. Writhing about in his own filth, squirming blindly with the dehydration of his organs and the failure of his limbs… oh, Ren would laugh if he saw this! Perhaps he’d even join Hux, wrap his body around the other’s brittle limbs and tuck Hux’s back to his chest, let him die with a semblance of pleasantry… perhaps they would have died together, a joint-mess, a two-faced whelp that was never wanted in the first place.

Hux finds that he doesn’t mind, not really.

He is, after all, a worthless whore.

He is, after all, beyond redemption.


End file.
